


Not Fade Away

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam wants something to keep.  Zayn has a lot to give.  </p><p>Somehow, they muddle along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snuffleslove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuffleslove/gifts).



Even with his eyes closed, Zayn can feel someone staring at him.

It’s not really as surprising as it ought to be, being watched as he sleeps. Zayn reckons personal boundaries are a figment of imagination when you’re in a band like One Direction.

Still, though. Bad form, getting woken up. So Zayn grumbles, “Liam,” and swipes a hand over his face, unable to explain how he knows—even without opening his eyes—that it’s Liam who’s looking at him right now. “You’re bein’ _rude_.”

If he sounds slightly surly, it’s no wonder. The band is in Cologne doing promo for Live While We're Young, and here’s Zayn’s rare chance at sleep interrupted. The last time he'd been woken up in the middle of a nap, Zayn had retaliated by drawing a giant dick on Louis' forehead. A vicious but trademark form of retaliation, if Zayn's honest.

Like always though...for Liam, Zayn’s willing to make concessions. Even if he does so rather grumpily. ** **  
****

Slumped against the cold glass of their rented SUV’s window, he blearily comes alive. And lets out an involuntary noise as the single-minded, slightly demented intensity of Liam’s gaze hits him full force.

A strange shiver at being the focus of Liam’s attention settles sharp and hot in the pit of Zayn’s stomach and he shifts, feeling unaccountably off-balance.

“Man, come on," he mutters, kicking his foot out to deliver a glancing blow. “Stop.”

Liam jumps, makes a vaguely startled noise as he tries to dodge the kick. “Oops,” he says, falling into a half-sprawl across his seat. “Sorry.”

Breathing a little easier now that eye contact has been broken, Zayn bites back a laugh at Liam’s sheepish expression. "S'okay,” he yawns, stretching. “S’pose you get used to serial killer looks when you’re mates with Harry."

Liam grins at that, and Zayn can’t help grinning back, fondly. Heaving himself upright, he looks around curiously, yawning again.

“The others went to lunch, yeah?” he asks, knocking his knee against Liam’s. “Why’re you still here instead of helping Tommo shove a bratwurst down Niall’s trousers or something?”

Liam’s grin fades and he bites his lip, something anxious settling over his features. In the wavering September sunlight, he suddenly looks younger and wearier, and Zayn frowns.

“Hey,” Zayn says quietly, his heart aching slightly at the force of the affection flooding suddenly through his veins. “Liam.”

He reaches out a hand, picking up Liam’s clenched fist, coaxing the fingers open so they can twine loosely with his own.

“What’s wrong?” Zayn asks, and all traces of fatigue are gone from his bones now, his spine straight and all attention on Liam’s uncertain expression.

“I...think I want a tattoo.”

Liam blurts out the harmless admission with such embarrassment that Zayn almost laughs. Instead, he says: "What?" Squeezing Liam’s hand, he asks, "Why?”

Though it explains the way Liam’s eyes had roamed over Zayn’s body with such studious intent, of all the things Zayn could have expected Liam to say, this is the last. Some of his doubt must show on his face, because Liam’s mouth quirks in a lopsided smile, other hand dropping to Zayn’s forearm.

Slowly, he lets his fingers trace the stark shape of the tattoos there, callused tips just barely touching each inked line.

"I’ve just been thinking, yeah?” Liam says, voice tentative. “About the new album, and the new single, and now things are going badly with Danielle—" he rushes through this last part, looking briefly pained before plowing on. "It's just a reminder that sometimes life moves so fast and..."

Shrugging, Liam trails off. Skating his finger in a zig-zag, he drags over the yellow letters on Zayn’s forearm.

"And?" Zayn prompts. A zip of electricity frissons down his spine at the scrape of Liam’s blunt fingernail.

Liam sighs, squeezing the bony circle of Zayn’s wrist. After a long moment, he speaks in a hushed voice.

"When everything's gone,” he says, “I want something to keep.”

At that solemn declaration, something catches in Zayn’s chest. There’s a transience to celebrity life that Zayn knows no one takes to heart as deeply as Liam. Whenever the others tell him to lighten up, a notch of worry appears between his brows as he responds:

_This could all be gone tomorrow, and then where would we be? Cities and hours apart, and me missing my four best mates. Twitcams aren’t such a hardship if that’s the other choice, boys._

Zayn doesn’t like to admit that he feels the same fear. That he knows fame is fleeting and that tomorrow he could be back home in Bradford, washed up and worse, without the closest friends he’s come to know.

He thinks he ought to say something now. Something like “You’ll keep us forever, you loon,” or “We have time yet,” or “A tattoo won’t help when you’re sad about not being a teenage superstar anymore, Liam,” but none of it seems appropriate. Not in the dark stillness of the van, and not for the raw sort of honesty of this admission.

So instead, Zayn says: “Yeah, alright.”

Imagines ghosting his hand over Liam’s skin, laying out a map that might one day tell their story with the permanence it deserves.

 

|

 

Zayn already knows there are vignettes that could be written on Liam's body eloquently enough through ink and needle:

A microphone with their audition numbers hidden in the crosshatching. Five sets of initials in the shape of a music note. The lyrics of the very first song they ever sang together—embarrassingly enough, not a cover of Torn but an _a capella_ rendition of Firework. The Haribo logo. A finger pointing in, well, one direction.

All parts of a sum total that ought to be showcased, celebrated. Saved. What better place to pay tribute to the last two years than the sweeping canvas of Liam’s skin?

And after all, he’s always borne their burdens on his sturdy, capable shoulders.

It’d be nice to be able to give him a gift to carry as well.

 

|

 

“Maybe I’d get a bunch of stars in a row, right down my arm. What d'you think?”

The words are soundless, drowned in the chatter of the other boys, but the shape of them moves hot against Zayn’s ear.

“‘Cause, you know. Meeting you lads was meant to be. Things could’ve gone so differently but as my mum would say, the stars aligned and, well. Here we are. And I’m so glad, Zayn. So glad.”

Looking out over the Rhine as the van drives on, Zayn touches Liam arm for a moment and thinks about fate.

In another universe, another life lived, he wouldn’t have been brave enough to go to auditions, wouldn’t have rocketed to fame alongside four other bewildered but happy boys, wouldn’t have known that Niall hates big crowds or Harry cries at sad movies or Louis is the kindest person alive to people he loves or that Liam is impossibly courageous, impossibly strong.

Just one thing changing, and he wouldn’t recognize warm brown eyes and a blinding smile, wouldn’t share t-shirts that are stretched too wide at the chest but smell like comfort and Diesel cologne, wouldn’t be able to start a game of FIFA at half three in the morning on a cramped tour bus riding across North America, exchanging muttered commiserations when a particularly crap play is called.

It feels wrong to even imagine, and Zayn closes his eyes against the thought.

“I’m glad too,” Zayn whispers back, and draws the invisible shape of an infinity symbol on the pale underside of Liam’s wrist.

 

|

 

They smash their performance in Germany and fly back to London exhausted but buzzing.

In their first few weeks back, they do massive amounts of interviews, all of which have Liam shoving his body even more needily in Zayn’s direction than ever before, an overgrown bundle of cuddles and smiles and petting hair.

Zayn can’t say with any sort of honesty that it’s an inconvenience exactly, but he determinedly doesn’t dwell on the feeling of completion that rings through the chambers of his chest every time Liam slots into the crooked loop of his arm, wide eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Maybe I’ll get a heart on my hip too,” Liam says cheekily, when the interviewer is focused on Harry and Liam is tucked in the loose half-circle of Zayn’s embrace. His smile is shy when he adds, “We can match.”

Zayn pokes Liam’s cheek and smiles toothily in response, mostly to cover up the sudden blush spreading across his face at the thought.

He wonders though, can’t help himself: what would it take to become an indelible part of Liam Payne?

(Later, when they’re hanging out on the couch at Liam's flat, Zayn’s iPod and one set of earbuds nestled between them, harmonizing easily to the newest Drake tune, their faces turned towards one another and eyes lazily unfocused, smiles like an afterthought on their mouths...

Zayn can almost pretend he already is.)

 

|

 

Things get busier, but nothing is forgotten.

It’d be easy to think that Liam would lose his desire for a tattoo amidst the stress of their upcoming tour, their album promotion, the escalating fights between him and Danielle. But Zayn watches Liam watch him, sees the way his eyes almost drink in the designs on Zayn’s arms and collarbone and the slice of skin on his waist when his shirt rides up. There’s a hunger there, mixed up with the hesitance.

In return, Zayn tracks the empty spaces of Liam’s forearms and wrists, the back of his neck.

And a plan begins to form in his head.

 

|

****

A few days later, Liam calls it quits with Danielle.

Amidst promo and the whirlwind that is gearing up for the next album, they all manage to catch glimpses of the real Liam slipping out behind the scenes. Wan smiles, troubled eyes. It's enough that on a weekend off, Louis sends a text to Zayn that simply says,  _Going to take Payno to get a tattoo. Whatdyou reckon is best—screw crew or...? xx_

Squinting suspiciously at his phone, Zayn frowns. Because given the chance, Zayn knows that Liam would let Louis convince him to get something spectacularly ill-advised on his arse.

 _No way !_ he types furiously in reply. _Gonna meet Liam today n take him 2 my guy_   _instead._ After a second’s thought, he adds: _Leave OFF ! I mean it  you have shite taste x_

His phone trills in response a second later: _Better than Harrys but fine you can have him...just be warned that hes a bit of a sad sack right now :(_

Zayn winces and shoves his phone into his back pocket. A glum, mopey Liam is about as heart-rending as it gets; the band is regularly treated to Liam’s mournful face every time they watch Toy Story 3 on the tour bus and even though it’s funny, it’s also really terrible and usually ends with everyone scrambling to see who can cheer Liam up the fastest.

Of course, in the end, it’s always either Louis or Zayn who wins.

Smiling at the pride embedded in that thought, Zayn rakes a hand through his hair and considers his options.

Lying to Louis via text was a necessary evil—there’s no way Zayn’s gonna take Liam to his parlor today. He’s definitely not ready to get a tattoo right now, not with his breakup with Danielle so fresh. Sure, Louis is charming, and sometimes he has the right idea, to do something so crazy it completely overwhelms the madness that comes from personal upheaval.

Just...not this time. This time, Zayn is the one who knows what Liam needs: familiarity. A place to remember who he is, and what he's got, and what he'll never lose.

Ten minutes later, Danny is in the driver’s seat and Zayn’s got his mobile to his ear.

“Hey, Li?” Zayn asks, looking out the window as London whizzes by, “Pack a weekender. We’re taking a trip, you and I.”

Save for Danny’s sporadic humming along with the radio, the car is silent for a long stretch. Then:

“You sure this is a good idea for you, _jaanu_?” Danny asks, and the nickname more than the sweet worry in Danny’s voice makes something in Zayn collapse.

They’re going to Bradford. Zayn is going to share a part of his life that he rarely does with the band, a consequence of compartmentalizing the before so well from the after of fame. Some kind of coping mechanism, maybe, a way for Zayn to make sure that if it all ends tomorrow, he’ll still have his town and his friends and his family, preserved like a fly in amber. Untouched by memories of spotlights and regret.

But for some reason, Zayn can’t think of anything more fitting for Liam right now. Taking him into the time capsule of Zayn’s life, showing him that some things do last, that there’ll always be a place for him to go.

It’s the kind of love the boys share, after all. When one of them hurts, it’s no big thing to open up even their most tightly locked doors, welcoming each other home.

Of course, Danny knows the instinct for self-preservation that runs deep within Zayn, that there's really no way to keep One Direction and  _home_ separate, especially when they're already so dangerously synonymous by now. When he asks if this trip is a good idea for Zayn, he's thinking instead of the tender reaches of Zayn's heart, the secrets only he can seem to read on Zayn's face whenever he talks about Liam.

A flick of the radio, and Channel Orange fills the car. It's not a particularly subtle message, but it's easier to say anything aloud. Saying it out loud makes it real, and that's something Zayn's not ready for yet.

“ _Na_ ,” Zayn finally responds to Danny, reaching a hand over to ruffle through his hair. “But ’m sure this is a good idea for him.”

Like it or not, Zayn is now used to putting the needs of his best mates ahead of his own vulnerabilities, crossing the safety of his well-drawn boundaries if only for their sakes. That’s the kind of bond that ties them all together now. That’s the kind of security.

Danny accepts this with a tilt of his chin, because he’s not the type to judge, only to guard.

Still, when they’re ten minutes away from Liam’s flat, Danny’s hand settles warm over Zayn’s. A questioning weight. A reminder that he’s spent years with Zayn, growing up in the same town, boxing and ducking and weaving blows, sharing spliffs under the street lights, confiding secrets in the hopeful dawns of Christmas mornings.

Maybe Zayn’s not ready to ask himself the questions that he needs to, but Danny can. If there’s a need.

Zayn smiles, a small grateful slice of teeth and crinkle of his eyes, and turns his hand to squeeze Danny’s.

“It’s fine, man,” he says, and though Danny purses his lips, he doesn’t respond.  Only nods.

As the car drives on, the speakers sing about bad religions and one man cults.

Zayn leans his head against the window and tries not think about much.

 

|

 

“Are we really going to Bradford?” Liam asks when he finally clambers into the backseat next to where Zayn is now sitting, duffel bag having been tossed in the boot.

Of course, there’s a dry lilt to his voice that indicates he’s well aware of how rhetorical the question is, given the fact that he’s climbed easily enough straight into a car headed directly to Yorkshire.

Zayn slings an arm around Liam’s neck and brings him close, silently thanking Danny for his careful nonchalance in front of them.

“Come on, Liam,” Zayn noses against Liam’s collarbone, squeezing at the tender dip of Liam’s nape. “Trust me.”

Wrinkling his nose and squirming, Liam huffs out a chuckle that turns into an outright guffaw as they begin to wrestle. Muffled curses, mussed up hair, a few pinches in some soft places, and then Zayn is knuckling into Liam’s belly, tickling until Liam calls for truce in a wheezing voice choked with laughter.

“Fine,” he cries, “Fine, I give! Bradford’s a brilliant idea! Mercy! Mercy!” Because Zayn fancies himself a good friend, he accedes, grinning.

They’re silent for a moment, catching their breath, settling down. Then, into the quiet, Liam says:

“I do, y’know.”

“Do what?” Zayn asks, voice gone low and dark as it always does (rather unconsciously) when Liam speaks to him with such emotions shining out of his eyes.

Liam rubs a hand over Zayn’s hair, soft and firm, fingers massaging his scalp. “Trust you,” he whispers, sounding a bit tired and sad but so certain of himself that Zayn is humbled. “I trust you.”

Nudging his head under Liam’s chin and giving his waist another squeeze, Zayn curls close for a little while longer. For a moment, all of Zayn’s senses narrow to the steady beat of Liam’s heart under Zayn’s ear and the familiar weight of Liam’s arm around Zayn’s shoulders.

A beat, and the tension in Liam’s body, wound so tight seconds before, eases.

They sit like that for a while, quiet, wrapped up in warm limbs and cologne and the slightly acrid bite of cigarette smoke on Zayn’s clothes. It’s not until they get on the M1 that Liam’s breathing evens out.

Weeks ago, he’d said to Zayn: _I think I want a tattoo_. A part of it, Zayn knows, is Liam’s fear of forgetting the past even as the future comes on, fast as a blink.

But another part of it is that Liam doesn’t yet know what it means when something’s a sure bet. When it’s burrowed so deep under your skin, in your heart, there’s no chance of being chased away.

“M not goin’ anywhere,” Zayn mumbles now against the flannel of Liam’s shirt, and the tips of his ears feel hot even as he makes the confession.

Danny’s eyes flick to meet Zayn’s in the rearview mirror, serious and measuring before he looks away.

Slowly, Zayn reaches a hand up, dips under the collar of Liam’s t-shirt, presses his thumb into a circle of Liam’s flesh, watches the goosebumps rise as Liam shifts restlessly.

There will be time enough later for marking, he decides.

Just now, Zayn lets Liam sleep.

 


	2. Chapter 2

They arrive in Bradford at about half past three, when the sky is beginning to dim and mellow.The car has just parked into a narrow space in front of Zayn’s house when the door is wrenched open and a scream cuts the air.

“Bhai!!”

This, Liam knows, is the Urdu word for older brother. Hearing it is the first tip-off that someone is not actually being murdered but instead, a sister of Zayn’s has found them.

The second tip-off is when a squealing, wriggling mass of a small child darts into the car. Another short shriek, and then Liam’s got gangly limbs and a very sharp elbow digging into his ribs.

“Hi Liam!!!”

Here’s Safaa, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, with a round face surrounded by wildly curling dark hair. Liam remembers that earlier this summer, she had something of a crush on him, but as young children do, she seems to have gotten over it, only smiling toothily at him now. She looks innocent and happy, and so much like a younger Zayn that Liam’s heart aches a bit.

“Hi, Saf,” he says, grinning, even as Zayn asks, resigned, “How’d you know we were coming?”

Safaa lunges into Zayn’s arms and burrows her face into his neck, squeezing tightly. “Danny bhai texted Mum so she’d make enough food,” she announces. “Lamb korma, mmmm!”

Danny shrugs apologetically at Zayn’s look. “It’s your mum’s lamb korma, man,” he says. With a grin, he gets out of the car and makes his way to the boot to get their bags.

In the car, Zayn ruffles Safaa’s hair and snorts. “‘S cool,” he says. “Just don’t go tearing around town telling all your friends, yeah? Wanted to give Liam a little bit of a rest, he’s had a rough week.”

Liam winces. Thinks of slamming doors and quietly vicious words and two years crashing right through his hands like a slippery vase, shattering on the ground into a million pieces. Left with an empty flat and a lot of memories and a frightening uncertainty ringing hollow in the pit of his stomach.

‘Having a rough week’ is an understatement, probably.

“Aw Liam bhai,” Safaa responds, scrambling off Zayn’s lap and onto Liam’s. “Sorry your week’s been bad,” she says sympathetically, and pats Liam’s cheek. “You’re my favorite in the band besides Zayn.”

The last part is recited dutifully, as if she knows saying otherwise might be hurtful, and Liam can’t get over the similarities between Safaa and Zayn, the kindness underneath the mischief, the careful way she touches his face.

Before he can respond with “That’s not what your Mrs. Niall Horan t-shirt is telling me!” Safaa blows a wet raspberry against Liam’s forehead, then, giggling, crawls out of the car, kneeing Liam in the stomach as she goes.

Slightly winded, Liam watches Safaa catch up to Danny and disappear into the house. When they’re gone from sight, Liam turns to Zayn and says in a wondering tone: “She called me bhai.”

Zayn looks confused. “‘Course she did,” he responds, as if it’s obvious. “You’re family.”

Liam blinks, feeling as if someone has just punched him in the solar plexus.

The thing is, Zayn’s learned the hard way to keep the doors to his life closed tight, to measure his words carefully. He doesn’t talk about his religion or speak Urdu in public anymore, and even with the boys, he’ll sometimes get shy, ducking his head when talking about being home for Eid or missing his mum’s chicken jalfrezi. There’s a whole part of Zayn that is still unknown to even the ones who love him best, outside the boundaries of Bradford and everything before the year 2010.

So it’s an incredibly precious gift to receive from Zayn now, this welcome. This matter-of-fact inclusion into the blood and bones of him.

Humbled, Liam tries to swallow around the sudden tight feeling in his throat, clutches his belly against the love that lives there, furling its fingers into a fist.

“Thanks,” he says finally, voice hushed.

Zayn cocks his head, his face cast in slices of sun and shadow from the light flooding the interior of the vehicle. Like a snapshot, he’s all dark lashes and sharp cheekbones and swooping hair, and he’s so beautiful that Liam honest-to-god catches his breath, squints against it, thinks he ought to shield his eyes.

“Don’t say thank you,” Zayn says, shaking his head. “‘S nothing you don’t deserve, yeah? Once you’ve seen those _crap_ baby pictures of me, you’re part of the clan.”

Liam lets out a soft laugh, poking Zayn in the arm and trying to shake off the lingering sense of being poleaxed by some feeling he can’t name. “Well, I won’t be asking for those pictures this time,” he says sagely.

“No?” Zayn asks suspiciously, grabbing Liam’s hand in his, skin warm and grip certain.

“Nah.” Liam leans in. “I’ll ask for the ones from year three, instead. Bradford Bad Boi’s first appearance if I remember correctly—”

Zayn’s got him in a headlock before he can finish his sentence, but by then, they’re both laughing too hard for it to be anything other than an embrace.

“I’m glad you’re here, bro,” Zayn whispers into Liam’s neck, and the words would be lost if not for the fact that Liam can feel them move against his skin.

“I’m glad, too,” Liam says into Zayn’s arm, lips skimming over the ink of his tattoo, the curve of ‘6’ from Zayn’s X-Factor audition.

And he is. He’s glad for a lot of things, all of a sudden. There’s a heaviness still resting in his heart, a reminder of the mess his life has become outside this band and his brothers, but right now, it doesn’t seem to matter. Right this second everything seems distant except for the comfort of Zayn’s elbow slung around Liam’s neck.

There’s a promise underneath all of this, something that feels like _always, man._ or _just say it and it’s yours,_ and Liam’s never been a religous sort, but he thanks God now for the word unconditional.

Into the inked imprint of the number that led Zayn to him, Liam whispers: “Let’s go inside, mate.”

With a smile, Zayn leads the way.

 

|

 

Here’s the thing that no one knows.

Zayn _always_ leads the way.

Louis is the one who sparks a match under Liam, sends him roaring into the atmosphere with an abandon that’s almost giddy. Niall is the one who carves a space for Liam, gives him somewhere soft and careless to settle when he’s restless. Harry is the one who anchors Liam, keeps him grounded with the blessed familiarity of gangly arms and bad jokes.

But Zayn. Zayn is the candle in the dark. When Liam’s at sea, he’s the lighthouse that beams into the clouds, a smile that shines quietly with sustained belief, an unshakeable faith.

Zayn’s the one who guides Liam back to himself every time.

 

|

 

Two years ago, sometime during the third week of live shows, Zayn had raised his head from where it lay comfortably nestled on Liam’s shoulder, and in a sleep-roughened voice, he’d asked:

“Liam. You worry a lot, don’t you?”

Liam had looked down at Zayn, the pale skin and circled eyes, the soft hair and soft cheeks, and honesty had come slipping out of his mouth despite himself. “Maybe,” Liam had said, voice tight with nerves, mind still firmly planted on the possible outcome of this week’s elimination round.

Slowly, with infinite care, Zayn had lifted Liam’s arm and placed it around his own shoulders. Curling Liam into an awkward but snuggly pile, he’d twisted one of Liam’s hoodie strings around his fist and said, quite simply, “Well. ‘S long as ‘m around you don’t have to, yeah?”

And even back then, Liam had known Zayn wasn’t the type to just make idle promises.

These days, Liam thinks about that moment in time a _lot_. He figures his brain should feel heavy with all the burdens weighing it down, especially now, but.

Walking up the drive to Zayn’s house, fingers tangled in the hem of Zayn’s t-shirt, Liam’s never felt more light on his feet.

 

|

 

It smells like sugar and milk and cardamom when Mrs. Malik leans in for a welcoming hug.

Liam smiles into her shoulder, is reminded of borrowing Zayn’s sweatshirts on the road, discreetly inhaling the scent of chai and stale weed that clings to its sleeves, burrowing with Zayn into a corner of their tour bus, watching city lights whizz by as they giddily drain Red Bulls and tell stories about their families.

Mrs. Malik releases Liam, and then Zayn’s sisters are attacking him with hugs as well, Mr. Malik ready with a handshake and a clap to his back. They’re Zayn’s family, people who have seen Zayn grow into the man he is now, people who have the same blood as Zayn running through their veins.

For someone who’s spent the past couple years convinced that he knows Zayn better than anyone, it’s both unsettling and exciting to see Zayn’s words from another life all of a sudden become reality.

But as Liam peeks over Safaa’s head (this is her fourth hug) to catch Zayn’s gaze with his own, a secret smile curling both their mouths, he thinks that maybe there are some things that he understands better about Zayn, after all.

Everything else is just something new left to learn.

 

|

 

“A _wedding_ , mum?!”

Turns out it’s not just any old family weekend they’ve crashed. Zayn looks dismayed and not a little bit panicked, tugging his fringe and wincing.

“Aliya and Farid sent the invitations ages ago, Zayn. I wasn’t going to make a fuss about you coming home, but since you’re here, and with a _date—_ ”

Zayn spills his cup of chai, face flooding red. Liam can’t help but grin around a mouthful of tenderly spiced lamb, his own cup of chai sending spirals of steam twisting into the air.

“He should be so lucky, Mrs. Malik,” Liam says loftily, and the round table of girls—Zayn’s sisters, cousins, and an aunt or two, all giggle behind their hands.

Mrs. Malik smiles indulgently. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it’s a bit awkward, but Aliya is a second cousin and she used to be quite fond of Zayn. It’d be so nice if he could at least come to the mehndi—”

Zayn pounces. “Okay, fine!” he says, “But _just_ the mehndi. Rest of the weekend is ours, alright?”

At Mrs. Malik’s raised eyebrow, Zayn’s bravado deflates. “Come on, mum,” he whines. “This is Liam’s weekend, yeah?”

Before Liam can protest that it’s _fine_ , really, being here with Zayn’s family is enough—more than, actually—Doniya interjects, reaching over Liam to grab a samosa.

“Don’t be such an idiot, Zayn,” she says. “Liam’ll love the ceremony. He’ll get to hear you sing.”

There’s something of the devil in her eyes, which Liam doesn’t understand. “Well, Doniya,” he responds politely, “I get to hear Zayn sing all the time, usually.”

Doniya gives a pitying sort of smile while Zayn targets his horrified look at his mum. “Not Bollywood’s latest hits, you don’t,” she responds sagely, and takes a huge bite of her samosa.

Liam imagines Zayn’s distinctive tenor taking the lyrical dips and heights of the Indian songs usually playing on BBCAsia, and a blush spreads through his limbs, unbidden.

“Oh,” Liam says, and Zayn thunks his head down on his arms.

“Mum, please don’t make me sing,” he asks miserably, voice muffled. He looks up, eyes pleading. “I don’t even know any of the new songs. Haven’t watch a Bollywood film since like, school.”

Mrs. Malik shrugs. “You can perform for thirty thousand girls at the O2, sunshine. Why not for your very own family?” She taps Zayn’s nose. “And you can just sing one of the old songs, yeah? It’s all good s’long as it’s you they’re hearing.” She grins fondly. “Our little superstar.”

Zayn groans. “I’m gonna look stupid,” he says mutinously, ducking Mrs. Malik’s placatory hand and folding his arms, not meeting Liam’s gaze. “In front of—of everyone.”

Mrs. Malik picks up Zayn’s plate, indulgence clearly at an end. “You’ll look cute, Zayn,” she says firmly. “It’s only one day, anyhow. You’ve got the next _ten months_ to spend with Liam alone—” she says this significantly, in a way that makes Zayn shift uncomfortably, and Liam feel a bit shy, “—so a Sunday with your family won’t kill him, will it?”

Liam gives a big smile, clutching his own plate a little tighter with the threat of lamb kormaa being taken away. “Oh, no, Mrs. Malik,” he says sincerely, and nudges Zayn’s foot with his own in sympathy. “I would love to go.”

Truthfully, despite Zayn’s obvious embarrassment, Liam really would. The thought of seeing Zayn in a way none of the other boys have before, it makes something oddly self-satisfied settle in his chest.

As if she knows what Liam’s thinking, Doniya smirks around her samosa and the rest of Zayn’s sisters and cousins titter.

“Cheer up, Zaynie,” she says conspiratorially as Mrs. Malik dumps Zayn’s plate into the sink and gives a sniff, “At least you’ll get to see Liam in a sherwani.”

And if Liam’s made nervous by the way Zayn shoots Doniya a dirty look before shooting Liam one that is loads more considering, he doesn’t show it.

Instead, he tears off some naan, clumsily cradling minced lamb in it’s flaky pocket, and reaches it over to Zayn, who bites it from Liam’s hand without even thinking.

“Well, I’m with you no matter what,” Liam says, and wipes his greasy fingers on Zayn’s cheek.

Amidst the laughter from Zayn’s sisters, and the retaliatory scuffle, all that matters is the way Zayn responds, fond as anything: “I know.”

 

|

 

Magazines like to catalogue Harry and Zayn’s tattoos.

This is the thought that strikes Liam as they troop to Zayn’s room and he catches sight of the fantail on the back of Zayn’s neck.

It’s funny and fruitless, that kind of effort. There’s no way to categorize all the things that Zayn’s deemed important enough to make permanent. Crossed fingers for luck on the outside of Zayn’s forearm. A black void of a heart that covers up an ill-advised Chinese symbol on Zayn’s hip. Names and dates scattered like constellations all over Zayn’s body, each with its own origin story, each with its own meaning.

Liam wonders whether there’s anything he values enough to preserve it for posterity. Wonders if someone would touch the faded ink in the future and ask him about the history attached to it, and whether his voice would go fond and abstract the way Zayn’s does when he touches his collarbone, or sweeps a hand over the ZAP.

Most of all, Liam wonders whether anyone will ever claim real estate on his body the way someone once did on his heart.

And, more distantly, whether there’s space for _him_ somewhere on the canvas of Zayn’s skin.

 

|

 

“Hey, so. Maybe we can visit your guy,” Liam suggests, when they’re in Zayn’s room and lying on the floor, because even though Bradford’s a three hour drive from London, hanging out with Zayn pretty much _anywhere_ means chilling, chilling, and oh—more chilling.

Not that Liam minds. He’s got his head on Zayn’s stomach as Zayn drags his fingers through Liam’s hair, the rhythm of it lazy, almost drugging.

They’re in a nest of blankets, because Zayn’s bed is too small for two broad-shouldered lads, though Liam distinctly remembers him and Zayn once squeezing into a bunk with Louis and his wriggling limbs. A Kanye  album is playing on low volume in the background, and Zayn’s entertaining Liam with tweets from the latest hashtag: _#LarryZiamLetNiallLoveYouToo!_

Zayn props himself up on his elbows, careful not to jostle Liam. “My guy?” he asks blankly, looking confused.

“Your tattoo guy! I figured that’s one of the reasons you’ve brought me here. Tommo must’ve told you his plan, and...” Liam trails off, embarrassed when he realizes from Zayn’s expression that he hadn’t even thought of this.

“Oh.” Zayn shakes his head. “That’s. Not why I brought y’here, no..” He smiles, tongue between his teeth. “Though, I did think about rescuing you from Louis. Who knows what kind of rubbish he’d have convinced you to get stamped across your knuckles.”

Liam grins. “I’d be well hard if I got knuckle tattoos,” he muses, reaching up to poke Zayn’s chin.

Zayn bites at Liam’s finger. “Liam Payne, bruiser. Nah, man. I just thought you could use a break, you know?” He looks at the ceiling for a moment, and Liam cranes his head, captivated by the rise and fall of his chest.

“Just to breathe,” Zayn says finally. His hand comes down to pet Liam’s hair again. “Sometimes when I can’t catch a breath myself, all I need is a place to go where there’s no expectations crowdin’ me...not even my own.” He sweeps his thumb over the ridge of Liam’s brows, following the winged edges. “You do that for me, Liam, and I’m quite thankful for it, if you didn’t know.”

A gossamer-thin touch against Liam’s cheekbones, like a kiss.

“So I wanted to do it for you, too. If you’ll let me.”

Liam drags in a trembling breath, chest full of things he doesn’t know how to articulate, can’t untangle well enough to say in a manner that Zayn would deserve.

Instead, he covers Zayn’s hand with his own and tries to impress upon him the sheer gratitude that’s swelling inside him now like a balloon.

“Thanks,” he whispers hoarsely. And maybe it’s inadequate, and maybe there’s more to say.

But for now, the sun wanes and the shadows cast long columns across their bodies, and Liam is happier than he can ever remember being, after a month of such utter shite.

They've got a few more days yet, and Liam think he'll find his words eventually.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Zayn wakes up the next morning to the smell of slightly burnt chai and greasy bread wafting through the house and the entirely unwelcome sound of his sisters arguing heatedly in the bathroom down the hall.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, and presses the pillow over his face. “‘S bad enough I have to deal with screaming girls on tour.”

From next to him, Liam laughs. With a start, Zayn remembers _oh, right_. Liam is here, in Bradford, in Zayn’s home, in Zayn’s room.

In Zayn’s bed.

Fingers brush the nape of Zayn’s neck, where the hair is soft and the skin is sensitive. He tries not to shiver at the feeling, though it’s like sunlight pouring over him for one hot instant.

“Morning, Zaynie,” Liam says, and there’s a smile in his voice that tugs at the corners of Zayn’s own mouth, a happiness that is pure and uncomplicated and so completely Liam. The nickname takes the edges from Liam’s raspy voice, makes it tender.

Zayn lets himself grin, slow and sleepy, and turns around. Swallowing a yawn, he says: “Morning, Li. Sorry about the banshees, yeah? Dunno what they could be yelling about now, but history shows it’s probably something ridiculous.”

Liam looks amused. “They’re arguing over Harry,” he explains, brown eyes lit from within. “Who’s his favorite Malik, I think.”

In the morning glow, Liam looks stripped of his usual trappings. Skin a little paler, circles around his eyes, stubble lining his cheeks and jaw and upper lip. His hair is sticking up in tiny tufts, no rhyme or reason, no perfect styling. And instead of the latest clothes, fashionable jackets or that bloody Burberry shirt, he’s wearing an old tshirt of Danny’s, Tong printed in faded letters across the chest, the hem slightly frayed where it rests at the top of his trackies.

Zayn entertains the thought of what it would’ve been like if that shirt was Liam’s own, if he’d gone to Tong with him, and grown up as his best friend from the start, two lads who wanted to sing, fighting against a world of wankers who didn’t understand what they had to give.

He swallows the sudden, stupid yearning in his throat and reminds himself that dreaming is pointless because Liam is here now, sharing the same space and looking into the other half of Zayn’s life. Seeing the little pieces of Zayn that he still doesn’t know how to put into words, but can _show_ him.

“Well,” Zayn breathes, letting his smile burn brighter, “They’re in for a disappointment. Seein’ as I’m obviously the favorite Malik.”

He expects Liam to laugh teasingly, maybe tweak his nose or muss his hair. Instead, Liam smiles back, lets it unfurl like its got all the time in the world, each centimetre moulding Liam’s expression into something bigger, something more. Something all and only for Zayn.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, eyes crinkling, sincerity weighing heavy in his voice, like he’s sharing a secret. “That you are.”

Zayn ducks his head, and Liam does laugh then, like he always does when Zayn gets shy. He gives a low chuckle as he brushes his hand against Zayn’s throat, thumb pressing against the jumping pulse there.

When Zayn raises his face, Liam is unbelievably close, all hollow cheekbones and slightly chapped lips and those thick, familiar eyebrows. A suspended moment, their breathing syncing up, all other sound fading away until it’s just the thud of Liam’s heartbeat pounding in tune with Zayn’s own.

He could kiss Liam, right now if he wanted to. Lean up, open his mouth under Liam’s, hot and slick and morning-stale, but good and sweet because it’s Liam. That outlandish thought, the one that comes out of nowhere and is sending cold lightning striking through Zayn’s bones, it could actually happen.

Somewhere in the stillness, an inexplicable terror rises in Zayn’s belly. A feeling like...portentous, Zayn thinks is the word.

Liam’s been careful every day of his damn life, but. Zayn’s never been so good at watching his step. And suddenly, with extreme and shocking clarity, Zayn realizes that there are land mines here that he never anticipated. Although maybe he should’ve done. Maybe he should’ve always known.

Possibilities emerge in the watery blur of his mind’s eye, obliterated by the sunlight gilding Liam’s lashes.

“Alright, alright,” Zayn finally says, breaking the silence. Rolls away and tries to control the winded quality of his voice. “Time to get up, I reckon. Long day.”

Liam doesn’t respond, but his hand slips down, rests heavy on Zayn’s chest. An anchor, a brand, a boundary, all at once.

“Yeah,” Liam says. “Let’s get started.”

  
|

 

Barriers. It’s about barriers.

Zayn won’t fool himself into thinking he’s never looked at Liam like—like that. There have been moments when the idea half-forms in his head, like a wisp of smoke, but he’s never let it evolve into a fully realized thought before. He’s never been allowed.

And even though Dani is gone now, Zayn knows he’s still not allowed, not really. There’s so many other things that should stop him. So many obstacles littering the way.

These kinds of walls are built high for a reason, and.

Well.

Zayn’s always been afraid of heights.

 

|

  
“Morning, Zaynie,” Doniya says at breakfast, mouth stuffed with toast and tea. “Sleep well?”

She waggles her eyebrows, manages to make it look lewd. Beside him, Liam goes pink at the edges. Zayn manfully resists the urge to yank her hair.

“Slept great,” he says truthfully, and squeezes Liam’s wrist.

“Good,” Doniya says. “Want your voice to be in tip top shape for the mehndi. Aliya’s been going on for weeks about gettin’ you to sing a few songs, so. Hope you’ve been watching your old DVDs since you been at home.”

Zayn’s face must look utterly horrified, because Liam smoothly interjects. “He’ll be fine,” Liam says confidently. “Better than fine.”

Doniya’s expression softens from impish to fond. “I know, Liam,” she says gently. “I was just taking the piss.”

Liam nods. “Yeah, that’s cool, but. Zayn gets nervous. Especially ‘bout this sort of stuff, so. It’d be nice not to tease.”

Zayn’s ears go hot at this unexpected defense and Doniya's speculative look.

“Come on,” he grumbles. “Let’s just eat. I don’t even wanna think about singing till I’ve got at least five of those in my belly.” He points to the steaming pakora in the center of the table, no doubt made special for Liam.

They sit down, Liam’s eyes on him, his thigh pressed long and warm against the side of Zayn’s own. Breakfast begins in companionable silence, but when it’s over, Liam snags his elbow.

He leans in close, smelling freshly-showered and minty from toothpaste. “You should know that you’re brilliant, Zayn,” Liam says earnestly. “Even if you’re scared. Even if you feel a bit out of your element. You’re brilliant and you’ll never be anything _but_ brilliant. Promise.”

And there it is. The blood and guts of the reason that Zayn secretly wants to scale whatever force-field he's placed between them and fucking fly into the unknown on the other side. The underlying bass beat of the music that motivated Zayn to even invite Liam here in the first place.

White lights, big stage, drowning screams. Quiet streets, fragrant food, comic books bleached by sun.

Two worlds that Zayn’s shared with Liam now, and the bridge between both is built on Liam Payne’s unending, simple acceptance of each piece. That there are complications he never considered, pebbles to scatter through the clear-blue cleanness of his relationship with Liam, Zayn's discovering only now. Still, though. Nothing, no sudden strike of emotion or sinking realization, can mar the gratitude slipping through Zayn's body, making him weightless, bringing him leaning close to Liam like a branch in the breeze.

He says “Shut up, ya great lump,” and palms at Liam’s head, making a show of looking embarrassed.

But he knows from the glow in Liam’s eyes that he hears the _Thank you, thank you, thank you_ reverberating inside.

 

|

 

In Urdu, Zayn’s name means beauty and grace. His mum calls him _jaanu_ , which literally means she’s calling him her reason for being. Sometimes, Waliyha calls him _yaar_ when she wants to sweeten him up, which is laughable because going from wanker big brother to ‘best friend’ is a pretty big leap.

Zayn likes the intimacy of nicknames that only certain people understand. Words you can drop your voice down low for, that will sound like gibberish to anyone but a select few.

When they go upstairs to get ready for the mehndi, Liam takes off his shirt, and Zayn imagines for just one second, inking in the dictionary of limited Urdu that he knows.

A blink, and he’s staring again at clean skin, an expectant smile. But it doesn’t stop Zayn later from ghosting letters across Liam’s back, distributing letters carelessly over whatever inch he can get away with under the guise of helping Liam dress:

 _Chahaat_ for longing, _sabar_ for patience, _kwaish_ for wish. _Arzoo_ for desire.

If Zayn ever gets the courage, he thinks there’s one particular word worth sharing. Right over Liam’s heart, where no one will know. He can see it, in his mind’s eye, scrolling script, larger than life. An offer, because Zayn still doesn't know how to ask for these types of things, only to give them and hope they're received well.

 _Hamesha_ , it would say, for the boy who's been scared of losing time.

Always.

 

|

 

(Wishful thinking is Zayn’s forte. There are entire interviews where all he’s got are dreams in his eyes.)

 

|

 

Turns out, Liam is too broad across the chest for any of Zayn’s sherwanis.  
  
“Ooh, big baddie Liam Payne,” he teases, poking Liam in the side. “Muscles bursting at the seams, oooh.”

“Shut up,” Liam says, voice muffled in the heavy brocade of Ant’s borrowed sherwani. It’s a rich, royal blue that will go well with Liam’s fading summer tan. He’s already wearing the silky white salwar trousers, resting low on his narrow hips in a way that makes Zayn’s heart jackhammer hard for a blind instant.

When the sherwani is on, snug across Liam’s shoulders and chest, the silver embroidery curling around the collar, Zayn has to take a step back.

Feet bare, decked out in party wear, hair mussed and stubble still lining the cut of his jaw, Liam looks better than good. He looks like he's meant to be here.

It knocks Zayn for a loop, that he’s never imagined this, when it seems so easy. So _right_.

“How do I look?” Liam asks, leaning in so Zayn can fix his silvery white dupatta shawl into an artful circle around Liam’s neck.

They stand like that for a full minute as Zayn fusses, Liam’s mouth brushing Zayn’s temple, lips grazing papery-thin across the surface of Zayn’s skin, the smell of his cologne filling the air, the silk of his dupatta slipping through Zayn’s fingers. When Liam drops a playful kiss, light and sweet, at the edge of his brow, the fabric in Zayn’s hand catches, then falls to the ground.

With a sigh, Zayn picks the dupatta up. Rearranges it carefully, tugs it into place. Closes his eyes, just for a second.

“Like you belong,” he blurts, finally, and looks up at Liam. Chagrined at the honesty in his voice.

Liam’s expression is unspeakably open, an agreement echoing faintly in the lines around his mouth, the tilt of his head.

“That’s good,” he affirms softly, “‘cause I feel like I do, I think. Belong here.” The _with you_ is just another thing that goes unsaid but is felt in the lightning strike that almost singes Zayn's heart, makes him swallow hard.

Cheeks scalding and breath caught in his throat, Zayn simply grins weakly, and rubs at the twinge in his chest.

But distantly, Zayn feels the force field waver, a brick crumbling in that forever-reaching wall.

Another barrier falling.

 

|

 

“Look at you,” cousin Aliya crows when they all arrive at the mehndi venue. She looks gorgeous in her yellow salwar kameez suit, sequins dazzling. “You’re just a perfect pair!”

Zayn is wearing a silver sherwani with navy embroidery and navy salwar trousers, a navy scarf thrown casually over his shoulder. He looks in many ways as the exact inverse of Liam, dark to light, silver to blue. There’s a joke here to be made, maybe, about mirrors or reflections.

Instead, Zayn lets the back of his hand graze Liam’s, inhales sharply at the contained shiver that runs through Liam’s body at the touch. Something shifts, and charges, between them.

“Yeah,” Zayn grins, a baring of his teeth, “‘spose we are.”

As he leans in to hug Aliya, the warmth of Liam’s hand still burns against his own.

 

|

 

The song that Zayn sings is called _O Re Piya_.

Words tend to lose meaning for Zayn when he sings in Hindi, because for all its similarity to Urdu, growing up bilingual is only as effective as how often you speak it. He’s had to watch Bollywood movies with subtitles on since he was a kid; knowing how to say ‘I love you’ is never going to change his new-colt skittishness with the language.

But the emotions. The emotions are what he’s always loved best about these songs. The melodic structure of Indian music is haunting. Complicated and challenging to sing, but when done right, it’s like a bird in flight, soars and dips that align perfectly with the longing and passion usually infused in the song.

When he begins to sing, lets the harmony spill out like water, clear and cold and pure from his throat, Zayn knows (even without asking Doniya in a furiously whispered conference side-stage before performing for dozens of his relatives and their friends) that this song is talking about love.

So when he sings about hurricanes and walking across coal, when the chorus unravels around a refrain for the singer’s beloved, Zayn turns. Faces stage right.

And lets himself, like always, sing his soul to Liam.

Liam, who watches him, eyes shining and proud.

Like he understands every word.

 

|

 

After all the song and dance is done, they sit in the gardens behind the venue, propped on a low stone wall, legs folded. The sun is setting, casting a dim glow on the grounds, where fairy lights are beginning to blink on and the celebrations are still going strong. A chill is settling into Zayn’s bones, and he shivers where he sits, knees knocking and head ducked into the insubstantial warmth provided by his dupatta.

“Gimme your hand,” he demands of Liam, bottom lip between teeth, nose and ears slightly numb.

“‘S cold,” Liam protests, but he reaches over anyway, one hand tucked between his thighs and the other slipping into Zayn’s waiting palm.

Zayn cradles Liam’s hand in his, gripping Liam’s wrist, sleeve of the sherwani pushed up to reveal tanned skin and roping muscles.

“Hey,” Zayn whispers, and he feels a little mad around the edges, tinged with that exhilarated kind of bravery that always precedes some of the most daring pranks he and Tommo have ever pulled.

Liam leans in closer, eyes sparkling, eyebrow cocked. “Hey, what?” he whispers back, lips quirked. His fingers flex, elegant and long, with blunt fingernails and ruddy knuckles.

Zayn traces a map of veins, light blue under the thin skin at Liam’s wrist, and smiles back. “Wanna tattoo?”

Liam blinks, startled. “Er—”

Zayn slips from his pocket a tube pilfered from the table of the mehndi artist. It’s a cone of foil, dark green paste seeping from the tip. The rich, earthy smell of henna makes the mid-autumn cold feel almost like spring, for a moment.

“Dude,” Liam says, smile widening. “Your mum’s gonna murder you.”

Zayn scowls. “Only if she finds out,” he says confidently. “Now come on, you said you wanted to get something permanent, yeah? Thought we could like, do a practice run. If you wanted.”

Liam looks stunned. “Now?” he asks. “Like...here, though?”

Zayn shifts, bringing Liam’s hand to rest, palm facing up, on his thigh. “Why not?” he asks. “‘S only temporary.”

Liam stills, so suddenly that Zayn’s jittery energy dissipates. He looks up at Liam questioningly, and Liam gives a self-deprecating smile.

“It’s just...I don’t want something temporary.” He shrugs, careful not to jostle his hand in Zayn’s lap. “Had enough of stuff that disappears in the end, haven’t I? ‘d rather have something to keep. Especially if...” this time it’s Liam’s turn to duck his head. “Well, especially if it’s from you, Zayn.”

And this is the kind of guilelessness that has always killed Zayn, a little. The way that Liam says these things to him and _means_ them. How he looks at Zayn like everything he does is precious. Like everything he does is worth remembering, and holding dear. Like every note sung, and every joke uttered, and every casual touch is something Liam’s locking away. Holding tight.

The honesty makes that familiar terror rise up in Zayn once again, makes him twist and turn Liam's words around in his head until they're some kind of confession, something that goes beyond the codependent brand of love and affection they've perfected over the past two years, something that means more. Enough that Zayn’s hand clenches around Liam’s wrist, a squeeze to communicate the sentiment that won’t come. His jaw buzzes with the need to move, to shape the words against Liam’s skin, to imprint them there forever.

He lifts Liam’s hand, brings it to his lips. Presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the delicate skin at the center of his palm.

A full body shake, and Liam’s eyes darken. His voice gets even more quiet, low. “Zayn,” he says.

Zayn feels reckless again, spinning out of control while sitting still. There’s a pale swathe of space on Liam’s wrist up the underside his forearm, where there’s no hair to snag against the drying henna paste, and where the pigment will stand out in stark relief. Zayn wants to create a masterpiece. Regardless of how this strange tension resolves itself, whether Zayn decides he's just mental or they exist with this electric current between them forever—he wants Liam to look at his arm and remember dark brown lines, to think of this weekend, this day, this moment in the garden with their breath misting between them and their hearts racing for no discernible reason.

Liam’s other hand slips out from between his thighs, slightly warm as it slides through Zayn’s hair, fingers anchoring in the thick strands at the nape of Zayn’s neck.

“What are you doing?” Liam asks, and though his voice is still low, there’s a wondering quality to it, gruff and nervous, but not wary. Welcoming, almost. Challenging.

Zayn takes a breath through his nose, pressing the tip of the henna tube to Liam’s skin and squeezing out the first thin, dark coil of color.

“Leaving a mark,” he responds, and begins to draw.

 

|

 

There are other ways to communicate, beyond words or songs or long, heavy looks.

Zayn inks, in long swoopy strokes, his heart, ventricle for ventricle, caged between spidery-thin ribs, roots reaching out in supplication.

_I'm not temporary._

_You're never gonna lose me._

_Everything I give is for you to keep, you big idiot_.

He draws his heart, and hopes Liam understands the message.

 

|

 

When the tattoo dries, Liam’s fingers curls around Zayn’s, clasped close, pulse beating through their joined hands.

He doesn’t let go.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The mehndi doesn’t end until midnight, in a burst of tired but cheerful _see you soon’s_ and a lovely hug from the bride as Liam and Zayn wave goodbye.

Everyone’s clearly exhausted, but Liam finds that he can’t sleep. He’s sat in the backseat with Zayn, and he keeps glancing over, the beginnings of a _thank you_ bubbling up in his throat, gratitude so huge that it feels like it’s about to spill over in his chest. Secretly, sometimes Liam still wonders whether he’s got a place. Whether he’ll be included. So whenever people make room for him in their lives, whenever someone shows that beyond One Direction, he’s loved and valued as a part of someone’s family— as a part of someone’s _home_ —

It means quite a lot. More than Liam can say.

Not that he doesn’t try. He wants to put into words the jittery, incandescent streams of joy that are filtering through him, but he can’t seem to do much more than open his mouth and close it once again, distracted by the curl of his fingers over the bright orange tattoo now staining his skin.

It’s a gift, the tattoo. Belonging. Inclusion. A little piece of himself that he’s let Zayn mark as his own. And a little piece of Zayn that’s been given to Liam to have and to carry.

 _Mine_ , Liam thinks, swiping a thumb over the design. _Ours._

The thought sparks a shiver so possessive that it’s almost embarrassing. Louis would probably take the piss, if he knew. He’d call it _being covetous_. He’d say it’s not a very good character trait.

“Oi.” Zayn chooses that moment to knock his knee against Liam’s companionably, beaming a bright smile through the dark.

Louis, Liam thinks maturely, can go to hell.

“You alright?” Zayn asks quietly, leaning close. It’s nice when Zayn does that, when he focuses so completely on Liam that they create a world of their own making, just the two of them. A thread of happiness moves down Liam’s spine, so pure and sharp that it almost rattles Liam’s bones and Zayn’s fingers curl around Liam’s thigh. “Liam?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Liam responds, overwhelmed. “Yeah, just. ‘S a nice tattoo, isn’t it?”

Nice is an understatement. It’s bloody gorgeous, full of detail and care. It’s Zayn all over, and it’s to keep, and it makes Liam’s head feel light everytime he looks at it.

“‘M glad you like it.” Zayn’s words are too hesitant. There’s a shadow in his eyes, like he wants something but isn’t sure how to ask. It reminds Liam a little of the look on Zayn’s face in the courtyard right before he’d kissed Liam’s palm. Uncertain. Shy.

At the memory, Liam’s body goes hot. Because he also remembers how Zayn’s half-lidded gaze had flickered from Liam’s hand to Liam’s mouth. How his skin had turned pink with a hectic flush. How he’d tilted closer and for a moment, it had been almost like they were going to—

But they hadn’t. Liam’s cheeks are positively aflame as he reminds himself sternly: nothing happened. Even if he’d thought—even if a part of him, for just a second, had _hoped_ —

“I love it, Zayn,” Liam blurts out. He wonders if it’s obvious, the string of mortifying yet shamefully intriguing possibilities now racing through his head.

Not that he can help it; all night it’s been like this, these odd currents of electricity that bolt through him when Zayn catches his eye or says his name or touches him in any way. For all that his love and affection and gratitude for Zayn is slightly overwhelming at times, it’s at least familiar. But this—God, when he’d starting singing _o re piya_ to the skies, and later when his fingers had slowly but surely navigated the tracery of veins under Liam’s skin, there’d been this feeling, like the first gulp of air after drowning. Like pins and needles when a limb comes alive. Awareness, Liam thinks it’s called. A kind of awareness he’s never quite had with Zayn.

They’ve spent the better part of three years in each other’s pockets, the two of them. Funny how there are still dimensions of their relationship that Liam’s only now uncovering.

He drops his hand over Zayn’s and squeezes. “I love it,” he repeats, feeling a bit unmoored.

“Oh,” Zayn says. “That’s good.” His tense frame relaxes, and he rests his head on Liam’s shoulder, sinking into him. “Wanted you to have something special.”

Liam’s hand tightens over Zayn’s. “It’s more than special,” he says. “Might get it tattooed for real.”

Zayn gives a snort and pokes Liam in the side. “Gettin’ brave,” he chides fondly. “Started you with something temporary on purpose, didn’t I? You might not want it after a few weeks, Liam.”

Liam has to cough to cover the low, fervent note to his voice, and even then, he knows he sounds unsteady when he admits, “I’ll want whatever you give me, if I’m being honest.”

There’s a beat, and then Zayn turns his hand so their fingers interlace. He gives a brief squeeze, and says: “Everything I’ve got is already yours, Liam.”

The words are gentle, but matter-of-fact, and they hit Liam with all the force of a thousand dull impacts, one after another. Zayn has a way of taking him apart with nothing but the truth. More than the rest of the boys, even. There’s an honesty between them that comes from a place of deep affection and, like. Getting each other. Being so alike. Before the band, Liam spent a long time being lonesome even if he wasn’t strictly alone; he remembers, from whispered conversations in the dark as their tour bus barrelled through the rain, that Zayn had been lonely, as well.  He thinks that finding Zayn helped him feel known when not many people had really bothered, before. And he’d like to believe that he did the same for Zayn. That they’ve played equal parts for one another in shaping the men that they’ve each become.

It’s what makes Liam want to tell Zayn about the strange, skittish energy that’s been surging through him tonight: this trust he has in Zayn, and this thought that whatever he’s feeling, Zayn must feel it, too.

And, yet. Staring down at the knife’s edge of Zayn’s profile, Liam can feel his breathing go a bit funny. His tongue feels trapped.

In the dark, Zayn tilts his head appraisingly. “Mate,” he says. He sounds concerned, voice low and throaty. “Liam. What’s wrong?” He runs his thumb along the line of Liam’s knuckle, an unconscious gesture of comfort that starts the bells clanging in Liam’s head again.

“Nothing,” Liam chokes. Everything. He can’t stop staring at the lush curve of Zayn’s lower lip, so he shifts his gaze to their joined hands knotted in his lap, instead.

The tattoo sits, vibrant and undeniable, on Liam’s forearm—a promise, a gift, when so much in their lives is still uncertain and impermanent. And then there’s Zayn himself, pressed against Liam, smart and kind and funny and complex, his best friend from the very first day they started on this adventure. A constant.

It should be comforting. But tonight, both the tattoo and Zayn make a hot throb of confused excitement jump in Liam’s belly. As they settle back into their seats, watch the streetlights blur by, Liam tries to tell himself not to be stupid. Tell himself that this is fine, it’s enough.

Zayn’s here, sitting right next to Liam, inked for awhile on his skin, and that’s enough.

It’s got to be.

 

|

 

It’s not enough. That’s the thing; when Liam starts dreaming, he gets greedy. All it took was a sultry song and shared sherwanis and a half hour under the moon with the thin coil of henna paste marking the moment as more and now, everytime he looks at Zayn, he wants—

He wants. That’s the problem.

 

|

 

Onstage, Zayn’s hand can be a lot of things. A guide, a barrier, an anchor. It dangles over Liam’s shoulder, or tickles Liam’s chin, or pushes gently at Liam’s hip. Sometimes, it sneaks under Liam’s shirt and lays flat over skin, warmth bleeding into warmth, curved into the dip of Liam’s lower back like it’s always belonged there.

Here, though. Now, as they trudge out of the car and into the house. Now, as his fingers curl into Liam’s sleeve and tug him along, up the stairs and into Zayn’s room.

It’s less of a lifeline and more of a lure. Liam’s always been more curious than most, and actually a fair bit reckless when it comes right down to it.

He takes the bait.

 

|

 

When the door shuts behind them, Liam lets loose a whoop, unable to keep the growing restlessness inside.

“Sick,” he says, holding his wrist up to the light. The henna has by now flaked completely off, and the lines are a rich red. Ventricles swirl over the pale skin like roots searching for the ground. “This is _sick_. You drew a heart.”

Zayn tosses a half grin at Liam, his eyes oddly focused. “ _My_ heart,” he corrects lightly, looking at the design on Liam’s forearm. He reaches out, circles Liam’s wrist. “It’s meant to be mine.”

He gives a smile, tongue pressed to his teeth, and it’s brilliant and full-bodied, the kind that makes Liam drift forward unconsciously, drawn in.

“Yours,” Liam agrees, voice low. “Mine to keep, though. Right?” He licks his lips, can’t help the way his gaze drops to Zayn’s grin. “You gave it to me to keep.”

Zayn’s thumb presses into Liam’s skin, fingers flexing. He blinks at Liam for a moment, eyes darkening. His lips part, but instead of saying anything, he cocks his head.

“Yeah,” he says finally, rough and tender. “‘S all yours, like I said. Everything ‘ve got.”

And as if his words weren’t enough to make the blood go thick and slow in Liam’s veins, then Zayn’s pushing Liam back in small increments until he’s pressed against the bedroom door, crowded close with his arms caging Liam in.

They are still for a moment, Zayn standing chest to chest with Liam, warm and solid and real in a way that always makes Liam’s heart feel so full, so happy. Zayn’s eyes are honeyed gold in the yellow light of his desk lamp, and despite the purposeful way he’s just manhandled Liam, they look—uncertain. Liam’s body shakes with the need to reassure.

But before he can say anything, Zayn reaches out. Slowly, with infinite care, he skims the back of his knuckles across Liam’s lips. The touch is light, but it sparks something in Liam’s blood, makes his breath hitch and his body go immediately and embarrassingly _hot_.

“Liam,” Zayn says, and there’s a low, longing note to his name that makes Liam want to curl his fingers in Zayn’s collar and tug him close.

Liam settles his hands on Zayn’s hips instead, not trusting his voice. The mortifying but shamefully intriguing thoughts from earlier are back now, and _possibly coming true_.

“Liam?” Zayn repeats on a whisper, on a question. He knots his fingers in the ends of Liam’s dupatta, reeling him in so their foreheads rest together. For a long moment, they simply breath the same air, touching skin to skin, and Liam settles into this, the familiar closeness, the easy way their bodies come together.

Then, so seamlessly Liam hardly notices it’s happening, Zayn’s face is tipping closer until their mouths meet in a kiss.

It’s slow, and drugging in its rhythm, the way Zayn fits his lips against Liam’s, the hot cling and press. Distantly, Liam thinks he should be surprised. Zayn’s always been a go-getter, and the one other time they’d done—well, not this exactly, but enough to blush and joke about it later—Zayn had been firm and crowding. Bruising, in a way that Liam had liked, where his lips had been a little swollen after, tender and pink.

Now, though, Zayn takes his time. He kisses with intent. Like he means it, with varying pressure, shifting restlessly. He lets go of Liam’s dupatta and curls a hand around Liam’s neck, pulling Liam’s head down a little and angling him so his mouth slants open over Zayn’s. And then it’s not just warmth building throughout Liam’s body in leisurely fits and starts. Then, it’s Zayn’s tongue touching his, stroking and slick. Then, it’s being drenched in the heat of the sun that’s pouring through Liam’s blood, his belly tightening and a loud, shocked moan spilling out of him.

That’s—God, he can’t even think, that’s _brilliant,_ the feeling of Zayn’s mouth, the slim length of his thigh between Liam’s legs, the taste of him, the broken groan he gives when Liam’s tongue slides against his, bold and desperate. Liam’s falling into the kiss, surrendering so fully that his knees feel a bit wobbly, and he moans again when Zayn pushes him against the door, holding him up. Moans one more time when Zayn’s blunt nails scrape his scalp, fingers going tight in Liam’s hair.

“Zayn,” he says raggedly into the quiet of Zayn’s room, punctuated only by their harsh breathing. There’s a pause; Liam licks at his own lips, can taste Zayn there. Another kiss, searching and searing, and their hips knock together just once and fuck—

The sound that Liam gives when Zayn wrenches away, stumbling back, is not strictly a whine. But it’s close. He reaches out, hoping to catch Zayn’s hips again, still breathless, still hungry.

“Zayn,” Liam says again.

And that’s all he gets out, before Zayn’s face drains of all color and he folds in on himself, pushing past Liam and dashing out the door without a word.

 

|

 

For a long time, Liam just stands there, touching his lips with wondering fingertips. Thinking nothing, mind wiped blank for anything except for the ghost of Zayn’s kiss and the sense that the world has shifted under his feet.

When the thought comes, it’s only:

 _Oh_.

 

|

 

There’s this moment right before going onstage, when everything goes hazy. It’s like, Liam gets so caught up in the chaos that the flashing lights go dim, and the voices go soft, and everything is just color and sound, a maelstrom that makes him happy even though he’s not quite sure why.

Then, inevitably, someone will clap their hand on Liam’s shoulder and everything will snap back into focus, clear and sharp, and the screams will pour through him, lighting up every nerve until he’s buzzing, floating, flying. Until he can pinpoint without a doubt the source of the good feelings that are surging through him.

It’s a bit like that, now. The clicking in place. The clarity. The livewire that his body has become.

One kiss, and it feels like a whole arena of people chanting his name. Like being right where he belongs, however mad or inconceivable that destination was, before.

It feels like waking up.

 

|

 

The first thing Zayn says when he finally comes back into his room, looking sheepish and uncertain, is:

“‘m sorry.”

Liam’s changed for bed, wearing the faded trackies from the night before and a t-shirt that he thinks Zayn must’ve knicked off him during the tour. It smells of Gucci Guilty and weed, soft and earthy and stale and sweet, but there are traces of Liam’s bodywash still on the collar, hints of both of them mingling on the cotton together. It makes his head swim, how much he loves it.

Zayn shuffles, rakes a hand through his hair. “Like, if you want me to sleep somewhere else—”

“No!” Liam shakes his head. He’s sat at the foot of Zayn’s bed, phone lying forgotten next to him, and he wants so badly to hook his fingers through Zayn’s dupatta and tug him close. Just for the draw of Zayn’s orbit. To breathe him in, to feel some sort of stillness even as the world turns under their feet.

Instead, Liam says, “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Zayn makes a face. “Yeah, there is,” he says. He fiddles with the end of his dupatta. “For...before.” He touches the pink of his lips, and at the memory of the heat, the frenzy, there’s a twist in Liam’s belly.

“Zayn,” Liam says. “I wanted you to, though.” He stares down at his lap abruptly, both surprised and pleased at his own bravery. The admission feels like falling from a very great height, freeing and terrifying all at once. He wiggles his finger through a hole in the knee of his track bottoms and doesn’t look up though he continues speaking.

“Like, I. Can’t believe you couldn’t tell, really.” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “The whole night—God, when you sang? And then after, the tattoo, and the car? I just—I wanted you to, I swear.”

Now, he looks up. Zayn’s face is blank in astonishment.

“Uh,” he says. “Sorry, _what_?”

Liam bites his lip. “I wanted you to,” he repeats. “I like you, Zayn,” he continues plainly, because he’s never known how to love something half way. Sure, he’s terrified, but there’s no room for not trying here. Not with Zayn. “Well, obviously I’ve always liked you, but I guess tonight felt different. It felt—feels—like more.”

Almost as a question, Liam puts his hand out. Zayn automatically takes it. Their fingers lace together, and the old familiar comfort is there, but now there’s a delicious kind of tension, too. A knowledge. A question.

“We’re best mates, always. First, last, no question.” Liam says. “But... that’s not all we have to be.” He clears his throat, courage sputtering to an end. “I mean, if you wanted. Like.”

Zayn squeezes his fingers. There’s a slow dawn of glimmering hope in his eyes, behind the lingering confusion and shame and incredulity. “I kissed you, didn’t I?” he asks, affection so naked in his voice that it fairly shines. “‘Course I want. ‘m just not sure if _you_ really do.”

Liam pulls Zayn closer, catches him by the hips like onstage, a touch that is fleeting till it’s not, his fingers digging into the bones, tracing the sharp angles.

“I really want to,” he says seriously. “Trust me, I really, really do.”

“Alright, anxious,” Zayn says, amusement coloring his voice. He sits on the perch of Liam’s knees, frames Liam’s face with his hands. “Look. I—” He frowns down at Liam, quietly pensive. “I didn’t even think you liked blokes.”

Liam traces the threadwork on Zayn’s sherwani. “Well, I didn’t think you did either,” he points out. Zayn ducks his head in sheepish acknowledgement. “I know better now,” Liam teases.

After a moment’s thought, he muses: “I s’pose I never considered it before you, if I’m honest. I never considered a lot of things before you. Oreos dunked in apple juice, sleeping until noon, tattoos. Becoming part of a world famous boyband.” He grins a little. “Hey. All those other things worked out pretty well in the end, didn’t they? So, might be worth giving this a go.”

Zayn looks ridiculously endeared, eyes shining and mouth tight around a suppressed laugh. “Oh, only might be,” he says.

“Definitely,” Liam corrects. “I know there’ll be things we have to work out. You’ve been dating Perrie, and I ought to speak with Dani before she finds out from the tabs, plus my mum’s gonna cluck over you for days, and it goes without saying that Louis’ bound to be an absolute nightmare, doesn’t it?” He drops his voice, leans his forehead into Zayn’s shoulder. “But if you’re ready to try, I’m ready to try.”

There’s no answer. Liam sighs, curls even closer into Zayn, trusting that even in uncertainty, he’ll be met halfway. He takes a long moment to listen to the steady beat of Zayn’s heart, trying to pull the thoughts from his head and make them into something worth saying out loud.

“You’ve... given me loads of things I don’t ever want to give back, Zayn.” Liam says, so soft it almost gets lost in the hum of the heater and the low drone of Zayn’s laptop fan on the desk. “You’ve given me your home, your family. Your friendship.” His breath catches. “This tattoo. This night. The way you taste. That’s as much part of it, too. I don’t want to just keep some of you, yeah? I want to keep it all, everything you show me. Anything you share.” He stops, noses up into Zayn’s throat, whispers into his skin: “Can I?”

Zayn’s hand runs through Liam’s hair, fingers light and deft. “Yeah,” he finally says, small and simple, a slip of a sound in Liam’s ear but it roars over Liam’s skin, crackles and sparks in a shower of heat.

He looks up at Zayn from under his lashes, feeling drunk, feeling alive, feeling so, so lucky.

“Yeah,” he echoes, and then they’re kissing again, warm with intent, lit with discovery, two people standing out against the dark, placid night in violent, vivid relief.

A moment, Liam thinks, worth marking.

 

|

 

(The morning comes. The days pass. They go back to London, then a promotional tour, then the whirlwind of the second album and world-records they never thought they’d break.

The henna fades.

Other things, thankfully, don’t.)

 

|

 

Sometime in November, Liam gets a set of chevrons on his arm. There are four, a chevron for each of the boys, and already, Zayn’s littered a million hot, open-mouthed kisses on the fourth, the one closest to Liam’s wrist and pulsepoint. It’s a tribute to something that changed Liam’s life, that he’d never forget, but likes to be reminded of. Every time he looks at the arrows, every time he thinks about what the shapes and the number represent, something in his chest eases.

And lower, under the sharp angles and bold lines, is the faintest imprint of an old design:

A heart, and its roots.

Something that stayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic wouldn't have been possible without Rachna and Natasha, two amazing Ziam writers and two amazing friends. Love you ladies. Thank you.


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